


Assistance to Launch

by Crazy_Dumpling



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Gen, Yuletide 2008
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-17
Updated: 2010-07-17
Packaged: 2017-10-10 14:45:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/100921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crazy_Dumpling/pseuds/Crazy_Dumpling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jenson gets a phone call from a certain World Champion after news of the Honda pull-out. (Written at the end of 2008.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Assistance to Launch

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by Sandrine Shaw. :) written for Xi Du as part of the Yuletide 2008 challenge. An example of canon following fic? One can only hope! ;)

_Tuesday, December 9, 2008. Monaco._

He's preparing to go on another jog around the principality when his mobile rings shrilly from its perch on the table next to his bed. Sighing, and mentally cursing whoever it is calling him, Jenson stops pulling on his trainers and answers the phone. If it's another journalist ringing for a reaction to Honda's pullout, he's going to hit something. They've been calling in droves over the past few days, and his management does block the bulk of the calls, but sometimes, somehow, a few callers sneak through to Jenson's private line, which is the biggest pain in the history of pains in the arse. Having to parrot the same few lines of being optimistic about the team's future is not the way that Jenson thought he'd be spending his winter break.

"Yes?" He barks into the phone with bad grace, "If it's the Daily Mail again, you lot can just fuck off."

"It's me, mate." The voice on the other line is shouting through a veil of static, but Jenson recognises it anyway. Lewis should be having fun, doing whatever it is that world champions are allowed to do on their winter breaks. At least his winter plans don't include hoping to heaven a testing position at another team will suddenly become available. Hamilton's probably having a lot of fun with his Pussycat Doll, teaching her how pit-stops work, or some such rot (Jenson used to do that with Louise), with not a care in the world other than when he's needed back at McLaren for some winter testing.

Christ. Jenson can remember when he used to take things so easily. He can still recall when he was the Next Big British Hope. When he was still the starry-eyed youngster just happy to be at the top tier of motorsport. How many years ago was that? Eight? And now look at this bastard who's taken that final step that he couldn't.

"Lewis!" he says, forcing himself to sound happy, "What's up? Nicole asking you to help her out of her bra and you're not sure what to do?"

"Fuck off!" Lewis answers, good-naturedly, "Just wanted to see how you were doing, that's all. We heard about it yesterday. It's a damn shame what's happened."

The cynical part of Jenson's brain tells him that Lewis is probably doing this because his father has told him to be nice because Jenson's no longer a threat to the Hamilton's plans for world domination or whatever grand schemes they're cooking up between the two of them. A bitter taste rises in the back of Jenson's throat.

"Yeah, well, thanks. We're all trying to find buyers to take over. Good luck with next season. Hopefully I'll see you around."

This, this is supposed to be the part where Lewis agrees, says take care, promises to be in touch (which he won't be) and hangs up. Only he doesn't. Instead, he keeps on talking, sounding less like a self-assured world champion and more like a shy teenage boy.

"Have your people been trying to get to the other teams? I hear Force India haven't confirmed anyone for sure." There is a pause and Jenson rolls his eyes at the ceiling, and watches the winter light bleeding into his room as the sun begins its slow ascent. "Though if you take Adrian's seat you and I are going to have to have words, I guess..."

Jenson doesn't quite know what to say to this. Surely Lewis must have known about the frantic phone calls that have been made, the amount of begging for a test drive to any team with even the slightest possible hint of a vacancy. It's standard procedure when you're desperately trying to keep the only job you've ever known.

"We've been looking around since we heard on Friday, but there's been nothing yet. It's only been two days though. Gotta keep my hopes up, don't I? Last thing I want to do is have to switch to BTCC just because someone's too attached to their wimp of a test driver."

"Touring cars aren't too bad, though. At least you'll still be driving cars. And there's not much chance of rolling off a cliff, like if you were in one of those rally cars. I was watching one of Kubica's friends have a go on TV and it looked as though he was going to die every ten seconds -"

Lewis would go on, but Jenson decides to interrupt him before he can get much further.

"Lewis," he says, whilst Hamilton is telling him about some rally computer game he bought the other day, "not that I'm complaining about you calling or anything, but is there a point to this?"

There is silence on the other end of the line and then Jenson hears a resigned sigh in the background.

"... Just stupid." Lewis mutters. "Look, Jense, this must sound really condescending to you right now, yeah? But just listen; I only wanted to tell you not to give up with trying to find a seat. You know, things will turn out right in the end, all that sort of shite. Only, you know, seems I'm still not very good at making phone calls."

He is right; Lewis still can't make phone calls. Jenson can still remember how he heard that Lewis was pulling out of the triathlon challenge they'd made up a few months back. It had been an awkward conversation of half-swallowed apologies and half-started sentences that had ended with a rather abrupt goodbye after a silence of about ten seconds.

Because even though Hamilton is the polished professional whilst the cameras are on him, all showboating for the fans and being chummy with his mechanics, he's still a nervous little kid when the cameras are off, and nobody's watching. Jenson's found this out after three Autosport awards after-parties together, not to mention a whole heap of impromptu late-night attempts to go to a local bar. Attempts that always seem to end in Lewis starting up his laptop and challenging Jenson to a computer game or two that seem to stretch out for hours without either of them noticing. Public Lewis loves the spotlight and everything that comes with it (but who wouldn't want to bask in the adoration of screaming fans, rub shoulders with rockstars, or fuck beautiful women?), but Private Lewis? He's much quieter than people think, and he likes things like setting highscores on his Playstation more than getting drunk in a trendy bar.

Jenson finds he has less time for Public Lewis than he does for the Lewis who  
makes stupid phone calls at inappropriate moments. But it's hard to stop himself from being jealous of what Lewis has been able to achieve in his short career, and for him to stop thinking of what might have been if only he'd, you know, had a bit more foresight. Or a bit more balls. Perhaps he could have been the one to take over Damon Hill's crown, not some kid who started out racing remote-controlled cars. He won't lie; sometimes at night he lies in bed, examines the moving patterns of shadows on the ceiling, and wonders what it'd be like if things had been just a bit different. When that happens (which has been quite often these last few days), Jenson sleeps badly, and has to wake up in the pre-dawn darkness for a jog just to clear his mind.

"Yeah? Well, look, thanks mate. It's much appreciated. You're the second driver to call me about this. Everyone else is just probably thanking their lucky stars they're not me or Rubens."

"Second?" Lewis sounds miffed. Well, he hates coming second to anyone, so that isn't much of a surprise. "What, to DC?"

"Nah. David and me got pissed at some bar yesterday afternoon. No, it was Ralf."

"Ralf Schumacher? He still calls you?" Is that a hint of jealousy in Mr Perfect's voice that Jenson detects?

"Well, sort of. He called me to gloat over the fact that he's still got a stable job. And then he told me I might as well give up any hope of staying in F1. Says that now the team is gone, there's no real reason why I should hang around much longer. He says begging's undignified. I should be going out with my head held high or some such thing."

Truth be told, a part of Jenson wants to believe that giving up now while he doesn't look too desperate is better for his career than having his management call up every single team on the grid and beg for a test drive. Ralf's always had a knack for stating the bloody obvious in as direct a manner as he can muster. More often than not it means he's a rude bastard who's a pain to be around for more than five minutes at a time. Still, though, Jenson wonders if the German has a point. Most of the teams have decided their line-ups already - and would he really want to go through the indignity of having to plead for a Force India drive? Has he really sunk to that?

"That's bullshit!" Lewis fairly explodes down the line, and Jenson has to hold the phone away from his ear for a while because he's afraid the combination of static and Lewis screaming will deafen him. "Ralf Schumacher couldn't be bothered trying to hold out for that Force India seat because he was lazy! He got soft years ago, and now he thinks he'd like to see you do the same thing, Jense. Don't bloody let him! So what if he thinks it looks like begging, huh? You know you deserve to be in F1, so you'll keep trying. He left because he didn't belong! You do."

After this little tirade, there is an embarrassed silence over the line, before Lewis says in a rather small voice, "I've been there too, you know. Having to ask around for a chance. It wasn't all so easy like everyone makes out. I mean, I know Ron's been really good to me, but I had to get his attention first. But you've been through all this, too. You know what it's like just trying to get here; that's why you can't give up yet."

For a minute, Jenson doesn't quite know what to say, and hopes that Nicole will find something in Lewis' apartment that needs doing and ask him to get off the phone. But that never comes and Lewis still hasn't said anything either. So Jenson opts for humour.

"You're being very silly, Lewis. Why'd you say all that when you should be happy that I'll be out of your way soon, huh? You should be glad that the only person who's capable of thrashing you might be out of a seat next year. Or maybe I'll be trundling around the back of the pack, doing a Giancarlo. Either way, it's all good for you."

There is another small burst of static, and he can hear Lewis clearing his throat in the background. Then, "Well, isn't it obvious? I - I like having you around, mate. I can't be the only bloke from Blighty on the grid."

"You seem to do pretty all right being the only Brit winning things though," Jenson reminds him, not without a trace of bitterness.

"Yeah, who wouldn't? But it'll still feel weird without you," Lewis says. "You're the guy who's fun. Not me. I'm supposed to be this hard-arsed mental warrior person. But you get to have fun with the whole British Playboy Driver thing."

"Thanks, I think!"

"Bollocks. No, what I meant to say is that - well it isn't F1 if you're not there, mate."

There is a real earnestness in Lewis' voice that Jenson finds compelling. He doesn't know why Lewis' call doesn't feel half as irritating as it should, or why he suddenly feels a touch more positive about his career again, but whatever trick Lewis is playing, it's working well. Jenson smiles in spite of himself.

"That means a lot to me, Lewis. Thanks." And he means it this time, too.

"You're welcome. And, you know, if you do need any extra help, I've a few contacts that I can slip you when my dad's not looking. You've got to stay, Jense, whatever it takes; I mean, DC's gone off to start playing house, and we can't lose you as well! What'll happen if I'm the only driver for people back home to support?"

"Is that a bad thing?"

"It will be when it drives all the people who hate me to support bloody Massa!"

Jenson laughs and, for the first time, notices the morning light flooding his apartment. He shades his eyes at the glare and hears a female voice somewhere in the background. Lewis swears softly.

"Look, I've got to go. Nicole's broken the shower, I think. But let's meet at one of those crazy expensive cafes near yours some time?"

Jenson answers yes, and they fix a time next week.

"Great, I'll see you then!" Lewis sounds as though he's moving through the different rooms of his home now, and the cloud of static finally clears, "And don't worry about it. You'll get something, mate. You're down, but you ain't out yet. I won't let you be. When we line up next year in Melbourne, you'll be right next to me."

He says goodbye and rings off, sounding a little embarrassed again, and Jenson finally manages to get his trainers on.

The morning air, when he leaves the apartment block and starts pounding the pavement, is not quite as cool as he thought it would be, and the sunlight illuminates everything on the road ahead in perfect clarity.


End file.
